The Hidden City
by Raindare
Summary: A short story about two rather neglected Silmarillion characters -- Hurin and Huor -- and the first arrival of Men in Gondolin. If you thought family hiking trips were difficult...


Disclaimer: This story comes from a half-page section of _The Silmarillion_ by J.R.R. Tolkien; if I have taken any liberties with canon, please let me know (not-so-subtle plea for feedback).

Now extended so that the ending isn't so abrupt. Valar help me, I'm out of practice.

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The Hidden City

"Where are we?" It was the voice of a thirteen-year-old boy, weary beyond any previous experience and damp enough from the fog and the river to be thoroughly miserable. The fact that he had just witnessed his first battle against the armies of Morgoth only made matters worse; he did not care that the mist over the ford had saved his life.

His older brother struggled on ahead of him, crested the hill, and started down again without pausing. "Dimbar. That river crossing was the ford at Brithiach."

"I knew that much already."

"I know no more," Húrin responded irritably, and finally halted as if a new thought had outweighed his other considerations. He peered at the overcast sky and then down at his hands, still flecked with dried orc blood. Night was falling, he could deny it no longer; and even if they could find their way back to the place of battle, they might find it full of enemies who would quickly overpower two teenaged boys. He allowed himself to feel some of the exhaustion that had already worn through Huor's endurance. "We might as well make camp. Sit." He began to gather sticks for a fire.

"I can help," Huor insisted.

"_Sit_, Huor. Get the waybread from your wallet, if you must."

The younger boy winced guiltily. "I lost mine. The strap came loose during the battle – it must have fallen."

A hint of amusement softened Húrin's blue eyes. His brother had been far too young to join Lord Halmir's forces, no matter how many Orcs sought to bring the destruction of the Dagor Bragollach farther south; but he possessed enough of the family stubbornness to have come along anyway. At this age, the older boy reflected, three years' difference seemed a long time.

"Here." He took his own wallet from underneath his mail and tossed it over. "You realize that means we have food for one day, not two – and that is without you cheating."

"Cheating! I am not stunted as you are."

Húrin sighed and answered nothing. He alone had inherited their mother's small stature, and Huor had not yet tired of the fact that the younger of the two brothers was taller and only now reaching his growth. Of the two, though, Húrin was still without question the hardier. He collected enough wood to suit him and arranged it to start a campfire. The day had been clammy enough that the result gave off more smoke than heat, but to his credit, Huor did not complain. Probably he was too tired even to whine.

"Our uncle Haldir will think that we were slain," Húrin began soberly as his brother gingerly bit into the waybread. They had spent the last few years as the foster sons of their mother's brother, according to custom. Neither spoke of the image that had occurred to both of them: a messenger announcing their deaths to Galdor and Hareth, their parents in Dor-lómin, who had not seen them since they had left.

"But—" Huor protested. "Might he not allow a few days for those who were scattered to return?"

"The rest of our company was taken or slain, Huor, not scattered…" They had become separated from the rest of Haldir's people and forced to retreat eastward. Both boys had paused on the far, foggy side of the river in shock at their escape and in grief for the others. They did not know what had become of the Haladin, or of the Elves who had unexpectedly come out of Doriath to help them.

"What are we to do?"

"As we have done: try to find the way back ourselves."

Huor groaned half-heartedly and lay back, trying to make himself comfortable on the cold ground. As the sound of slow breathing rose from the opposite side of the fire, Húrin smothered the embers and curled up in his cloak.

He had enough to worry him as he lay there, staring up at the dark and starless sky. Despite brave words, they were truly lost in the wilderness north of Brethil. He smiled wryly at that. Brethil itself had seemed a wilderness when he and Huor had come to it, grandsons of the lord of wealthy Dor-lómin. Their mother's people were short of numbers as well as height, and they lived in scattered homesteads across the forest. It had seemed so isolated and rural. He knew the difference now. In Dimbar, there were no small parties of foresters to ask for help or directions; no shrill, warning whistles the Drúedain made when danger approached; and no paths, however subtle, to take them back to his uncle's house. Dimbar was truly empty.

Instead he pictured his home in Dor-lómin, which he had not seen for more than two years. They'd received word that much had changed there. Remembering that, Húrin swallowed back the feeling that had led to tears only weeks earlier; both his grandfather and his father's brother Gundor had been killed in the fighting. A fraction of the House of Bëor, homes ruined, had fled into Hithlum and Brethil as refugees. He had heard rumors that a handful of their people had remained in Dorthonion after the burning; but for all practical purposes, the Three Houses of the Edain were down to two.

"Perhaps dying now would be a mercy," he said aloud to himself, but even as he did, he believed otherwise. Húrin had a natural sense of optimism that overruled self-pity. "No. We will find the way home." Satisfied with that, he drew his hood up and slept.

The next morning dawned clear, chilly with the wind coming down off the mountains of Crissaegrim. Huor woke first, and climbed to the nearest hilltop before his brother began to stir. Húrin opened his eyes to an empty campsite, which frightened him badly before he realized where the other boy had gone. Huor was staring at the northern sky, one hand shading his sensitive blue eyes from the low, slanting glare of the sun. The mail he had put on again glowed dully.

"What do you see?" Húrin called up to him.

"Eagles!" he answered happily, and pointed. "Look!"

They flew high up, but Húrin still had the impression of enormous size: a silhouetted wingspan even longer than his brother's height. "I cannot imagine that the Orcs would like that," he grinned, "not that _anything _eats Orc… We must be relatively safe here."

"If only we knew where 'here' was." Huor returned to the campsite, picked up Húrin's wallet that lay on the ground between them, and glumly inspected its contents. "We shall have to find our way back to the others, across the Sirion. It is too far to the houses of Men in Brethil."

"And Elves watch some of that way, and do not welcome strangers."

He frowned. "Elves of Doriath? Beleg Strongbow came from there to help us. He did not seem unfriendly."

"Beleg is kind. But you were right about our course, whatever the reason. Come on." Húrin stood, slung the wallet against his back, and turned to face his shadow. "This way is west, or near enough. We cannot fail to strike the river."

Their journey proved more complicated; the hills of the Crissaegrim were full of deceits and places where a sudden cliff or gully proved impassable. They were forced to sidetrack when this happened, north or south. Then the morning's fair-weather clouds gathered and darkened with the menacing promise of rain. Húrin lost all sense of direction.

"We should have come to Brithiach hours ago," Huor muttered. The first fat, cold drops of rain had fallen, and the wind was blowing them through his cloak.

"I know that, but alas—" Húrin stopped suddenly, stifling a yell of surprise. The ground ended neatly at his feet; an old riverbed, now dry, had carved a sharp gorge before them. If previous small gullies had made the going difficult, this was impossible. He did not know whether the ford of Sirion lay north or south, and the gorge apparently extended for some distance. "_Ai!_" he cried in inexpressible disgust.

"Nay, we can cross it," his brother answered. Apparently undaunted by the damp rocks, he began to pick his way down the steep rock face. The rain worsened steadily.

"I do not deem it wise, not now!" Húrin called down. "Come back!"

The younger boy ignored him. Fingers locked into the crevices of the rock, he lowered himself easily. "The wind is not so sharp down here, brother," he shouted. "Perhaps we can camp at the bottom!"

"You are suggesting we camp in a riverbed to wait out a rainstorm! Don't be a fool!" His warning came too late. Huor lost his footing and fell with a cry. "_Huor!_"

Húrin had no choice but to work his way down in his brother's path, moving slowly to avoid the same mistake. The younger boy had slid only a few feet, but he was sitting heedlessly in the mud and sobbing with pain. His ankle had twisted hard under him.

"Can you stand?" Already he was too big for Húrin to carry him far.

"It hurts," he answered, helpless.

Their attention was so focused on the calamity that neither heard the thunder of huge wings bearing down on them. Húrin looked up in alarm as talons the size of daggers found purchase in his habergeon and carried him aloft. A second dark shape swooped low over his brother.

"Eagles!" he said stupidly.

"Our lord Thorondor commanded us to bear two bewildered wanderers to Gondolin," the great bird told him, cocking its head in an approximation of a smile. 

"Gondolin?"

"The city of Turgon, brother to the new High King. It is closer than any other dwelling of Elves or Men, and my lord believed that ye would need the help quickly."

He had heard rumors of a hidden city, but everyone had assumed that it lay much further south. Now, though, he was too surprised at their rescue to comment. "I thank you," he said finally.

That night, the eagles dropped from the clouds into the midst of a valley no mortal had ever seen, dotted nevertheless with the lights of civilization. Húrin landed quite gently on his own feet, but apparently the great birds did not understand his brother's injury. The younger boy collapsed onto hands and knees with a gasp. The eagles wheeled, clumsy in the dark and so close to the ground, and flew away into the night.

Húrin knelt. "Huor?"

He moaned, staring at the grass between his hands with a grim expression. Shock, maybe; Húrin knew little about healing. Huor was clearly about to faint, however, so Húrin slipped an arm around his shoulders to hold him up. By now, shouts of alarm had alerted the Elves in the city all around them. Some of the cries had changed to curiosity by the time the first few people reached the lawn, and a hurried discussion began in a language Húrin did not understand: Quenya, he supposed.

After a moment, though, the tallest of them – a fair-haired Elf who bore some resemblance to the descriptions Húrin had heard of the House of Fingolfin – switched abruptly to Sindarin. "Whence come you?"

"The eagles…" he answered vaguely, but there was now no sign of the two rescuers. "We were lost in Dimbar after the fighting. My brother is hurt." He realized how small and pathetic they must look: two mortal children, soaking wet, in dull armor that would not withstand any serious blow. The elf lord did not look disgusted, however, but actually frightened. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.

"Thorondor must have forgotten everything we spoke of," he muttered. "The law of this kingdom is that anyone who finds the way in must remain here, except in death. And we do not trust mortals with the secret even then. What is your name?"

"Húrin son of Galdor of Dor-lómin, of the house of Hador."

Turgon's expression changed suddenly. "Hador?" Húrin nodded. "Very well. We will have to provide for two guests, it seems." He strode away, calling out an order in the High-Elven tongue. Others came to help the boys to their feet. If Húrin thought this sudden change of attitude surprising, he wisely said nothing. Few people knew what messages had come to the king in dreams.


End file.
